


God Grant Me The Serenity

by rynow



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholics Anonymous, Angst, Dave Is A Shitty Father, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rynow/pseuds/rynow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave Strider is an alcoholic wreck coerced into joining AA by his son's friend's father. Karkat Vantas is an old-timer with little patience for Dave's attitude towards the program. Sexual tension ensues. And drama. Lots and lots of drama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cunning, Baffling, Powerful

**Author's Note:**

> insert pithy comment here

Your name is Dave Strider.

You're kind of impressed that you actually remember this, considering the intensity of the throbbing pain in your head. This is Christ-level shit; if some priest came along and found you like this you're pretty sure you'd be elevated to sainthood just for living through the sheer torture that is your hangover. Seriously. It's that bad.

Since you're courageous as all hell, you crack open one eye to brave the evil that is the sun. It burns your vision white for a minute, and when you're finally able to see, you notice you passed out on the couch. Again. You should really stop doing that; you're not twenty anymore and you don't need a back problem to keep your litany of other problems company. The TV's on mute and your son-- shit, that word stings, after eleven years you're still unable to wrap your head around fatherhood-- your son, Dirk, is sitting in front of it, watching something with too much science and not enough explosions.

"Morning," you grumble. You rub your eyes and attempt to sit up before flopping flat on your back again.

"Afternoon, actually," he says, not looking away from the TV. "Do you want me to make you Ovaltine or something?"

"Hair of the dog that bit me, and I'm pretty sure that particular mutt goes great with tomato juice. Had a hell of a pair of jaws on it too." You pause. "Afternoon?"

"Yeah." He stands up and goes into the kitchen, leaving you alone with his show. A robot with an uncannily human face smiles and waves at the camera while a couple Asian guys in labcoats talk. You wonder if you're still drunk because the subtitles don't make any damn sense. After a few seconds of blinking and squinting, you realize that's because they're not in English.

Dirk returns with your Bloody Mary, and you take a gulp as soon as it's in your hand, wincing at the taste.

"Thanks, bro." You jerk a finger at the TV. "Ain't that boring? You can't even understand what they're saying."

"Yes I can."

"What, you speak Chinese now?"

"Japanese." He purses his lips and your realize that you probably should have known that. "I've been studying it for the past year with Miss Megido. I'm almost fluent. Miss Megido says it's easier to learn languages when you're my age, because of how our brains are wired."

"All looks like Wingdings to me." You reach out to ruffle his hair. He does that thing where he tries to look superior and adult but just ends up pouting. "Robotics _and_ bilingual? Next thing you know you're gonna be heading off to college."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Miss Megido says she's considering moving me up to the eighth grade."

"You'll be top dog in a week flat. Ain't nobody cooler than a Strider, don't worry about those fourteen-year-old twerps messin' with you."

"She also says that I have to improve my social skills first, though. She says that I need to learn to 'relate to the other children on a peer level,' and that I can come off as 'a bit conceited and generally abrasive.'" His voice inflects on his teacher's words, diverging from his usual monotone enough that Dave can tell it's a quotation.

"Bitch."

Dirk shrugs. "She's alright," he says. He pauses, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Miss Megido also says that in the eighth grade my absenteeism won't be tolerated."

You raise an eyebrow, unable to answer with your mouth full of your drink.

"She says if I can make a friend and pick up my attendance rate by the end of the semester, she'll promote me."

"That's great, bro." You hold out your fist for a bunp, which he doesn't grant you.

"So, I'll need your help with that."

"'Course. Anything for you."

He just stares at you, and you feel kind of like you're missing something. What does he want from you?

"Don't look at me like that, dude. The fuck do I help you with school shit on a Sunday?"

"Monday."

"What?"

"Today's Monday. It's two in the afternoon on Monday."

You blink, going over last night--Saturday night-- in your memory. You'd gone out with your friends, had a couple beers, met a couple girls, and then, yeah. You don't remember much more, but you must have come home sometime around five AM and passed out on the couch.

You snort. "That shit ain't funny, dude, and it ain't cute. You're way too old for pranks like that."

"I'm not joking, Dave."

Dirk doesn't mess with you very often, and when he does, he owns up to it as soon as you remind him that adults don't act that way. Kid wants so hard to be grown up. You rub your temples, trying to remember more of last night, but you must have drank more than you can recall because you're drawing a blank. 

"Did I come home Sunday?"

Dirk shakes his head. "I didn't really notice until it was late, though, since I was working on Brobot all day."

Shit. You _really_ must have drank more than you can recall. 

"Did you eat?" you ask.

"Yeah, Easy Mac. I do know how to work a microwave, believe it or not."

"Yeah, you're a regular fuckin' genius." You reach out to ruffle his hair again, but he darts away, pursing his lips and crossing his arms once he's out of arm's reach.

"Thanks to your nigh-comatose state, I missed school today. Again. If you can't drive me in the morning, we need to move somewhere with a bus stop. I can't miss this much school. I know you fucked off all your school years, but I actually want a future, so."

Ouch.

"Better call the fire patrol, that was a pretty hot burn there."

He scoffs. "Look, it doesn't matter to me if you go out Friday, Saturday night, whatever. Honestly, I could care less. I'm old enough that I can take care of myself on weekends. All I'm asking is that you be here, awake and sober, Monday through Friday at eight in the morning to drive me to school, and four in the afternoon to drive me back. It's not a Herculean feat, Dave. The other parents seem to manage it just fine."

"If you like the other kids' parents so goddamn much, why don't you go get yourself adopted?"

"Fuck you."

"Right back at you. That was out of line, and you know it," you say.

"I suppose you're right."

"Damn straight," you snap.

"After all, you'd know what not being on the line looks like. Nine days out of ten you can't walk in a straight one."

He turns on his heel and walks back to his bedroom before you can reply, and you're left with a half-empty glass and something that feels suspiciously like guilt.

 

Dirk doesn't confront you again, and in return you do your best to be a halfway-decent dad. You set the alarm on your phone for seven-thirty, and though you're usually sore and bleary, with a couple cups of coffee in you you're at least awake enough to drive him to his middle-school. Then you fall back asleep until your second alarm wakes you up at three-fifteen to go pick him up.

You manage this schedule for a whole two weeks before the alarm stops being enough to wake you up. Somehow, though, Dirk continues to get to and from school without your help. You ask him about it and he says that he made a friend, Jane, and he's getting rides with her now. When you ask him to elaborate, he says Jane's a seventh-grader, smart but not as smart as he is, and that her dad is very nice, doesn't drink but smokes like a chimney. You ask him if he likes her. He says sure, that if he has to have a friend she's an acceptable one. You ask him if he _like_ likes her and he just shrugs noncommittally. He's becoming more of a teenager every day.

It's a few weeks later when the pamphlet shows up. It's sitting on your chest when you wake up that afternoon, ugly typography asking if you need help. There's a circle surrounding a triangle on the cover, and on the inside it's got a phone number, an address, and a list of twelve steps.

You're waiting for Dirk when the front door opens that afternoon.

"What the fuck?" You demand, brandishing the pamphlet. "Fuckin' AA? What the actual fuck, Dirk."

He doesn't say anything, just stares at his feet, but an unfamiliar voice answers you.

"I'm afraid that was my doing." The door's pushed open wider to reveal a man maybe ten years older than you, wearing a crisp white button-up and a matching fedora. "Dirk, would you go keep Jane company in the car? I'm sure she's lonely."

Dirk nods mutely and slips through the door, this stranger taking the opportunity to step inside.

"I'm Jane's father, if you hadn't deduced as much already. I assume you are Mr. Strider."

"Uh, yeah. Call me Dave."

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind." He looks you straight in the eye-- not an easy feat with your sunglasses in the way. "Mr. Strider, I have half a mind to skip this entire conversation and simply call CPS."

You want to drop your jaw, but you restrict yourself to a simple eyebrow raise. _What._

"I was set to do so in the first place, but my daughter begged me not to. She said Dirk cares about you quite a lot, and despite my attempt at explaining that it would be for the best for him, she was adamant that I at least give you a chance. Luckily for you, I am a man incapable of refusing his daughter anything. So consider this your warning." He steps closer, not breaking eye contact. "Despite your son's refusal to admit your incompetence, it is clear as day that you are an unfit parent. After extensive probing-" You snort at his word choice and he raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me? After interrogating him thoroughly I managed to ascertain that as expected, your problem is alcohol. The over-consumption, of it, to be precise."

He clears his throat. "Mr. Strider, I am not unfamiliar with the subtleties of substance abuse. Somebody very close to me is also an alcoholic, but after an attempt to turn his life around with the help of the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, he has now achieved thirty consecutive years of sobriety."

Shit, you can't imagine going thirty _days_ without a drink.

"I want you to go to AA. I had Dirk leave you a pamphlet with a phone number. Call it, and you will be given an itinerary of available meetings. I will be checking up on you."

You're still pretty shell-shocked. "Uh, what?"

"Furthermore, Dirk will be sleeping over with Jane until you attend your first meeting. If you find this displeasurable, I suggest you complain to Child Protective Services."

You frown. "Isn't that kinda inappropriate? Boy and girl rule, y'know."

He blinks. "My god, you really don't know your son at all, do you."

Before you can answer, he leaves.

You're not entirely sure what just happened.

 

You wait two days, sure that this white-bread suburban dad won't stand by his threat, but when the third day dawns with no sight of Dirk, you finally make the call.

"Hello, this is Seattle AA, how may I help you?"

You hang up.

You stare at the phone for a good fifteen minutes, trying to convince yourself to call again, but instead you find yourself calling Dirk's cell. (He made you buy it for him after the time you accidentally forgot him at a truck stop. He was nine. You were tipsy.)

The voice that greets you is not Dirk's.

"Hello, Mr. Strider."

"Oh. Uh. Hey, uh..."

"Mr. Crocker."

"Yeah. Jane's dad. I went to that meeting. Can I have my son back?"

"Poppycock."

"...What?"

Mr. Crocker sighs into the phone. "You're lying to me, Mr. Strider. I know for a fact you didn't attend one minute of a meeting. You most likely didn't even call the number I gave you."

"I did, actually."

"Very well, you may indeed have called the number."

"Look, I called, and I heard the schedule, and it's just not feasible. I'm too busy, and they all conflict. Okay? I tried, Jesus H. Christ."

"You're too busy to attend an hour-long meeting in order to reclaim your son?"

Shit. You hadn't known they were only an hour long. Now you look _really_ bad. "Yeah, basically."

"That's a shame."

"Mhm."

"Especially considering Dirk tells me that you're unemployed."

_Shit._

"I overheard him bragging to Jane that you made so much money off the series of movies you wrote and directed during your twenties that you are, apparently, 'set for life.' Or was he just exaggerating, as children are prone to do?"

You hit your forehead with the heel of your hand. You are the biggest fucking moron ever; it's you. 

"Yeah, you know how Dirk can be," you say.

"Yes, I do. The question is, do _you_?"

"What?"

Mr. Crocker sighs again. "Never mind. Go to a meeting, Mr. Strider. Do not call again until you have done so. I am confiscating Dirk's cellular phone. Goodbye."

"Wait, don't-"

He hangs up on you.

 

You put off calling again for another day, and spend it getting as wasted as possible without leaving your apartment. Partway through you dial up some girl you know-- you honestly don't remember what she looks like, but you have her number programmed into your phone so you figure she's probably down to fuck. She's too high to drive and you're too drunk, so you end up having phone sex on the couch, and when you're finished and hang up you think how nice it is not to have the responsibility of taking care of your kid. You can basically do whatever you want now he's gone, and you scoff at thin air. Mr. Crocker can keep Dirk for all you care. You're fine without him.

Your phone goes off with the shitty ironic rap song you have programmed as your texting ringtone. You scramble to answer it and find your Pesterchum app blinking.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

TT: Hey.

TG: su

TG: p

TT: Have you been drinking?

TG: ...,

TG: nno

TT: Right. Whatever.

TT: Mr. Crocker's at work, so I have my phone back for the moment. It was just laying in the drawer of his bedside table.

TG: wow lmae

TT: Clearly he was unaware that I've spent my eleven years sleuthing out the increasingly esoteric places you hide my Christmas presents. He might as well have just handed my phone to me.

TG: shit istill dont knwo how you fuond last years presnet youre pacticarly shelrock holms dude

TG: exept more hi techh with all your frekay robobotics shit youd be lik sehrlock 2.0

TT: If you don't mind, I'm going to sidestep what is sure to be a long-winded and completely ridiculous metaphor to explain my very simple strategy.

TG: aw mna that was gona be a good obe too

TT: My deepest apologies.

TT: You checked on the present at least once a day because you were paranoid that I'd discovered its location. All I had to do was covertly follow you and eventually you led me straight to it.

TT: Elementary, my dear Watson.

TG: alrihgt that makss sense but how thr hell did yu get all the wya up htere

TT: A man has to keep some of his secrets.

TG: yeha okay a man deios but a preteeen boy doersnt

TG: dish

TT: Never.

TG: do i haev tobeg

TG: im dwon on my kneeas

TG: i woludd even sayy pleasae

TG: but youer so ice col;d im afraod my phoene woudl freexe

TG: jeeeeeez

TG: uoure sucha t ease

TG: did you scarmable up som treess

TG: or laren to wok atrappeze

TG: i woundlt put it apst you if y ou can majke sense of jarpnaese

TG: no dor is barrde to yyo bro you ogt the keyus

TG: aynthign you wantt you can obtuian it wtuh easae

TT: Dave.

TT: Stop.

TG: i was runnnig out of siht that ryhyhmes with jnees anwtay

TG: triyngto figuer out hw to work peasa in htere

TT: I'll make a deal with you.

TG: im listerening

TT: I promise I'll tell you how I got up onto the roof, but I'll only do it in person. I can't have any random hacker discovering what is quite possibly the secret of the century. A secret to rival Nicolas Cage's discovery, a National Treasure the likes of which are unseen by the human eye. Excepting my own, of course.

TT: That means you'd have to actually go to a meeting though, as Mr. Crocker seems unlikely to retract his threat any time in the next... well.

TT: Ever.

TG: shti

TG: cant yu jsut sneak outor soemtyhing

TG: meert me ata taco belll adn revreal your holioest of holyy sercets htere

TT: No, it has to be in private.

TT: Besides, Mr. Crocker has installed a tracking chip beneath my skin. He has the front door all wired up and it gives me an electric shock whenever I attempt to leave the premises. He's torturing me, Dave. Can't you break me out of here?

TG: im rihhgt on tit ill pull an indioana jones siwng in ona rope an pull you aaway shotoing out the frnt door all in oen fell swop theyll writ ballards abut it dudee shitll be epci

TT: Haha.

TT: In all honesty though, it's pretty nice here. Mr. Crocker is a great cook and Jane has Dance Dance Revolution for the Wii. I'm living like a king.

TG: oh

TT: I miss Brobot and my toolbox, though. Mr. Crocker just doesn't have the materials I need in order to construct anything of interest. He knows how to make twelve different kinds of chocolate cake but has no idea what a Phillips screwdriver is.

TG: haha wahta fag

TT: Yeah.

TG: do yuo miss antyhing else tehn

TT: I have an inexplicable craving for Taco Bell and Domino's. It seems I can't just quit fast food cold turkey.

TG: its an addidctoion

TT: Yeah.

TT: Anyway, I have to go. Jane was taking a nap but I can hear her getting up.

TT: I doubt I'll get another chance to pester you anytime soon. 

TG: ima big bouy i thnik ican hadnle it

TT: I'll see you around, then.

TT: Maybe.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

It takes another two days of complete radio silence before you finally give up and make the call. One meeting won't kill you, probably.

The woman who answers the phone tells you that the next meeting is at six thirty that evening, and gives you an address that you program into your iPhone's GPS. When you drive up and see a church, you chicken out. You were never much for all that God shit-- most of your foster parents were Christians and they never seemed to like you much either-- but you see a few people out front smoking and you figure you can at least get out and have a cigarette before you drive all the way back to your apartment.

You nod to them when you light up. Two guys, looks like they're both in their fifties, maybe early sixties. One's got a pair of thick-framed glasses perched on his nose and a greying walrus mustache below it. The other's clean-shaven and is wearing an army jacket-- not the fashion-statement kind, but the genuine article. You think you might even see a bullethole on the shoulder.

"You here for the meeting, bud?" the mustached guy asks.

Before you can answer, the guy in the army jacket grumbles, "Shut the hell up, John. It's fucking obvious what he's here for."

"I'm not a drunk," you say.

"Sure you're not," Army Jacket says. "You're just here for the women's quilting group down the hall, you've got sewing guild written all over you. And you know what else is all over you? The smell of booze."

"I don't fucking need this," you snap.

"Yeah, you fucking do. I know your type. Somebody doesn't call you on your shit now, you'll keep your head up your ass sniffing it all evening long and you won't hear a goddamn word. I've seen too many punks like you come in and throw away their chance at recovery not to recognize the signs."

"Whatever, gramps. Your onsetting dementia is clearly making you forget one vee aye eff very important fact: you don't fucking know me." You stub your cigarette out in the ashtray. "See you around."

"The only place I'll be seeing you is laying in the gutter. You're fucked, asshole!" Army Jacket calls after you as you walk away. "It's probably for the best that you're bailing out now before anybody gets attached to you because I doubt you're even going to be able to put thirty days together, judging by the size of your ego."

You stop to give him the finger but feel a hand on your shoulder. You turn to see Mustache (John?) smiling at you.

"Don't let him scare you away, bud," he says. "He can be kind of a dick but he's a good guy really."

"Don't bother. He was just on his way out. He's too much of a pussy to stay," Army Jacket says.

"Actually," you say. "I was just locking my car. Wouldn't want some drunk to steal it while I'm in there getting my recovery on." You pointedly ignore Army Jacket as you turn your key in the lock and walk past him through the church doors and into the meeting room. You'll fucking show him. Him and Mr. Crocker both.


	2. Keep Coming Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which dave has the attention span of a hyperactive mayfly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i tried to update this twice already but it keeps screwing with me fingers crossed that the third times the charm

The first thing you notice is that the coffee is shit. Seriously, it's the worst stuff you've ever tasted, and you've had some dank-ass shit. You've even drunk the free stuff they give out at truck stops, and this doesn't even compare. You say as much to the girl standing there, and she glowers at you.

"If you hate it that much, why don't you just make it yourself?"

"Whoa, okay, sorry if I offended you," you start, but it's too late.

"Seriously, you are the official coffee boy from now on. Come early. Bring your own coffee grounds if you don't like what we've got. I have had it with you people." She storms away, and you grimace, pouring the rest of your cup out into the trash.

You slide into a seat next to a juggalo-looking guy in the back row.

"Yo," you say.

"Whassup brother," he drawls, voice a little scratchy.

"I think I just got screwed into being the new coffee guy."

He grins at you. "You complain 'bout the taste?"

"Hell yeah I complained. It tasted like fermented piss mixed with motor oil."

"Yeah, that sorta shit happens alla motherfuckin' time. You gotta show up at six every week now an' make the magic brew or else people'll get their annoyed on. It's a'ight, though. Service keeps you sober, y'know? S'like a tradition here, newest newcomer always makes coffee 'til another motherfucker comes along. I all up an' did my time too."

"I'm only here for the one meeting though."

He shakes his head. "Nuh-uh, my brother. You in for the long haul now, y'gotta keep comin' back. Coffee's a motherfuckin' sacred responsibility you're all up an' havin' now, you can't just blow that off."

"Bullshit."

He shrugs.

"My name's John, and I'm an alcoholic," you hear John-with-the-mustache say over the rest of the group from up front, and everyone settles down.

"Hey, John," they all say in unison, and holy shit, it's like you're in a cult or something.

"A moment of silence to reflect on why we are here, followed by the Serenity Prayer," John says.

Around you everyone bows their heads and you sit there frozen, just staring at them. You've never prayed before. You're not really sure how to do it.

After a long pause, John says, "God," and the rest of the group repeats it after him, even Army Jacket, who's sitting between John and some blonde chick. From then on, they're in unison. You don't know a single word, and you wonder if you'll be expected to memorize it.

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

You mumble the last few words a half-second after everyone else, and then everyone sits back up again and continues on. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, you listen on as John explains that this is the regular Friday night twelve-step meaning, and that it's a closed meeting, whatever that means, et cetera, et cetera. "Are there any announcements?" he asks. A woman stands up and says something about a Gratitude Banquet. John thanks her and then says, "Sollux will be reading How it Works."

"I'm Thollukth and I'm an alcoholic," some guy with a Vulcan-looking haircut on the other side of the room says.

"Hey, Sollux," everyone says in unison.

Sollux picks up a thick book laying on the chair next to him, and clears his throat before he starts. "Rarely have we theen a perthon fail who hath thoroughly followed our path. Thothe who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themthelveth to thith thimple program, usually men and women who are conthtitutionally incapable of being honetht with themthelves. There are thuch unfortunateth..."

You zone out for a minute; Sollux's lisp is incredibly distracting. Instead of paying attention, you check out the blonde girl next to Army Jacket. She doesn't look like she can be much older than twenty. Her off-the-shoulder top scoops down to show the slightest hint of cleavage, her miniskirt revealing long, bare legs. Catching you looking, she smiles and winks at you, the movement sending her curls bobbing against her collarbone. You nod at her and tune back in to Sollux. Can't let a girl think you're paying too much attention to her.

"...the thteps we took, which are thuggethted ath a program of recovery. One, we admitted we were powerleth over alcohol, that our liveth had become unmanageable."

This clearly wasn't written for you. Your life is totally fucking manageable. Shit's cool as a penguin-shaped ice cube. Drinking really isn't actually an issue, seeing as how you don't do it unless you want to. How the fuck are you even supposed to be "powerless" over something inanimate anyway? You're not powerless over jack shit. Frankly, these guys seem kind of weak-willed.

"Two, came to believe that a Power greater than ourthelveth could rethtore uth to thanity."

If you'd wanted to hear this shit, you would have joined a church.

"Three, made a dethision to turn our will and our liveth over to the care of God ath we underthtood Him. Four, made a thearching and fearleth moral inventory of ourthelveth. Five, admitted to God, to ourthelveth, and to another human being the ekthact nature of our wrongth.Thikth, were entirely ready to have God remove all theeth defecth of character."

What defects of character? You're not fucking defective.

"Theven, humbly athked Him to remove our shortcomingth. Eight, made a litht of all perthonth we had harmed, and became willing to make amendth to them all. Nine, made direct amendth to thuch people wherever pothible, ekthept when to do tho would injure them or otherth."

You're going to need to remember to write some new material using speech impediments when you get home tonight. You haven't finished a script in years, but this might just be the spark of humor you need to get your creative juices flowing again.

"Ten, continued to take perthonal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it. Eleven, thought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God ath we underthtood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for uth and the power to carry that out."

So you couldn't pray for cool shit like money or chicks, or even for the cure for cancer? Jeez, what a gyp.

"Twelve, having had a thpiritual awakening ath the rethult of theeth thtepth, we tried to carry thith methage to alcoholicth, and to practice theeth printhipalth in all our affairth. Many of uth ekthclaimed, 'What an order! I can't go through with it!'"

You snort.

"Do not be dithcouraged. No one among uth hath been able to maintain anything like perfect adherenth to theeth printhipleth. We are not thaintth. The point ith, that we are willing to grow along thpiritual lineth. The printhipleth we have thet down are guideth to progreth. We claim thpiritual progreth rather than thpiritual perfection."

Fuck that, you could totally achieve spiritual perfection if you wanted to.

"Our dethcription of the alcoholic, the chapter to the agnothtic, and our perthonal adventureth before and after make clear three pertinent ideath: A, that we were alcoholic and could not manage our own liveth. B, that probably no human power could have relieved our alcoholithm. C," and everyone joins in with him on the last line, "that God could and would if he were sought."

"Thank you, Sollux," John says, and the room echoes him. "Now I'm going to turn this whole shebang over to our lovely chairperson." He turns and nods to the girl you'd been checking out earlier.

"Hey everyone! My name's Roxy, and I'm an alcoholic." She smiles cheerily, and several people smile back. Unsurprisingly, Army Jacket is not among them. "This is the part where I talk about the Seventh Tradition, right?" She half-turns to John, and he nods. "Okay, yeah, we're self-supporting through our own voluntary contributions and don't rely on help from any outside organizations. There are no dues or fees for AA membership, and you put them in this basket." She holds up a little wicker basket, and a few people chuckle. Passing it to the person next to her, she continues, "Is there anybody here who's here for their first, second, or third meeting since their last drink?"

A girl in a nauseating neon sweater stands up. "I'm Terezi, and it's been four point one three days since my last drink." 

"Wow, that's pretty fuckin' exact," Roxy says. "Can I cuss? Whatever, there’s no kids here, it’s a closed meeting. Welcome, Terezi!" Everybody applauds, and Terezi grins widely, looking a little like a manic hyena. A manic, alcoholic hyena.

A few other people stand up and introduce themselves, and then Roxy makes eye contact with you. You'd been kind of hoping to pass by unnoticed, but now you feel obligated to speak. 

You intend to say something memorable and witty as per usual, but instead you just mumble, "Yo, the name's Dave," and sit back down quickly, "don't wear it out" dying in your throat.

You hope she won't call attention to the fact that you didn't self-identify as an alcoholic or even say how long it's been since your last drink, and she doesn't, just smiles and says, "Welcome, Dave!"

You're the last of the newcomers, and Roxy proceeds to announce a topic, which you don't catch because you're too busy mentally replaying your introduction and trying not to wince. Way to make a fucking stellar first impression, Dave. The loser pussy homo who can't even introduce himself right, that's sure to cement you in everyone's memory. Not that you really care what any of these people think of you, but still. Your sharp sense of humor has always been your most interesting quality, and it totally just failed you. Left you out to dry like last week's laundry. Shit, that was easily the most blasé metaphor you've ever used. You really _are_ losing it.

As the meeting wears on, various volunteers speak for anywhere between two and ten minutes. Once everyone who wanted to share has spoken, Roxy starts calling on people.

"John?" she says first.

John smiles and nods. "Hey, I'm John, and I'm an alcoholic." He pauses while everyone greets him. "The only thing I have to share is a piece of advice for our newcomers and a reminder for us old-timers: what's most important is that you really _want_ to stop drinking. No matter how 'cunning, baffling, and powerful' booze may be, sobriety _is_ possible if you work this program. If you really want to be sober, you're in the right place."

"Thank you, John," Roxy says. "Umm... Gamzee?"

The juggalo next to you responds with a twelve-minute diatribe on how much of a miracle it is that he's sober. Seriously, he's a walking miracle. It feels like the whole world's full of miracles. What a miracle it is not to drink! The guy must say the word 'miracle' at least five hundred motherfucking times during his speech, and from the alternating glazed and irritated looks on most everybody's faces, you assume that this is a regular thing.

"Okay, that about wraps us up! Now I'll have Damara read the Promises and then we're going to stand and hold hands and say the Lord's Prayer," Roxy says, and some girl with a Japanese accent so thick you can only catch like every third word proceeds to read a short section from her book. Instead of trying to decipher her speech, you spend the time analyzing Army Jacket, whose name you still don't know, even after all these introductions. He's short-- a few inches shorter than you, and you're 5'8", not exactly a giant. He has a deep crease between his thick eyebrows and frown lines at the corners of his mouth. There are dark circles below his eyes, and his dark hair is cut short and choppy, going gray at his temples and in his sideburns. His jawline's still strong, and his shoulders are broad. He's burly, but doesn't have a paunch, and you suspect that a lot of his bulk is muscle.

When the reading is finished, everybody stands up. Gamzee holds out his hand to you, but it's sticky with something you can't actually identify so you just kind of semi-politely abscond. Roxy waves you over, and you end up between her and Army Jacket. Roxy's palm is smooth and cool, her fingers loosely interlaced with yours. Army Jacket, however, ignoring your hand entirely, ends up trapping your wrist in a grip so tight that you think he might actually be cutting off circulation to your hand. His skin is hot to the touch, almost frighteningly so, and you can feel your wrist getting sweaty in his hold. You spend most of the prayer trying to worm your hand free.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory forever. Amen."

Then everyone shakes their joined hands and says, "Keep coming back, it works if you work it, 'cause you're worth it." Although he doesn't say the words, Army Jacket pulls on your arm with jerky movements so violent that you think it might actually come dislodged from its socket. It's a huge relief when he finally lets go, signaling the end of the meeting.

Roxy doesn't even let go of your hand before she turns to you. "So, Dave, you didn't say. Has it been twenty-four hours since your last drink?"

You count back mentally. "What time is it?"

She checks her cell phone. "Seven forty-two."

You passed out at around six pm last night after drinking all day, woke up at ten this morning and didn't have a Bloody Mary because you were out of vodka and didn't want to drive anywhere. Did you drink today? You're not totally sure, but you don't think so. You actually ran out of pretty much everything good a few days after Dirk left. Yesterday you drank the last of your beer, and now you think you just have that disgusting fruit-flavored shit your foster mom bought you for Christmas like ten years ago. You'd remember if you cracked that open.

Instead of explaining all that, you just say, "Yeah, it has then."

"Awesome! You want a coin?"

"A coin," you repeat, not inflecting your voice enough for it to sound like a question.

"A twenty-four-hour coin, like as a memento or whatever to celebrate going a whole day without drinking. You get another one at three months, then six, then nine, and then one every year you're sober." She digs around inside her purse and pulls out her keys, to which three coins are attached. They're a little bigger than a quarter, and inscribed with numerals. She holds each of them out to show you. "There's my twenty-four hour coin, and my three month, and my six month! That's actually just from a couple weeks ago." 

"Hot shit," you say. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Not even legal yet and you're already quitting? What a waste."

She takes a long look at you, raising her eyebrows. "Whoa there, cowboy. Drunk mess is _not_ my type. Try putting a couple weeks together before you hit on me."

"Who says I'm hitting on you? Kind of cocky of you to just assume I am."

"Look who you're calling cocky, Rooster von Penis."

"Keep your dick in your pants," you hear growled from behind you. 

You turn and see Army Jacket, a plastic box cradled in his arms. His posture is ridiculously good-- probably because he is (or was) military.

"That goes for both of you," he adds.

Roxy laughs. "Hey, Karkat. Dave, this is Karkat. Karkat, this is-"

Army Jacket interrupts her. "We've met."

You start to ask what the fuck is up with his absurd name, but he cuts you off too.

"Don't you even start with me, you insincere shit-faced little twerp. If you had half a fucking clue what I've been through you would shut your goddamn mouth before I blow it off with the sheer force of my ancient fucking wisdom, which your scrawny twink ass couldn't begin to rival even with a doctorate in 'How to Not Be A Complete Rummy Loser,' a course which you apparently skipped in high school as well as in whatever apparently disturbingly paltry secondary education you probably didn't have."

"...Did you just call me a twink?" How does he even know what a twink _is_? Isn't he like sixty?

"Besides, before you start hooting like a shit-slinging baboon at my name, you should probably start to consider the real fucking question here. What kind of a name is 'Dave'?" he asks, the way he says your name practically dripping with disgust. "It sounds like what you'd call a baby that you knew was going to grow up to be an acne-ridden manchild desperately clinging to a bottle of Jack D's in the unlikely hope it will help alleviate his Odysseus-level mommy issues stemming from the fact that nobody but his old lady would ever lay a finger on his greasy, skeevy self. That's probably actually where the meaning came from. It's Latin for 'will never get laid, because he's an insufferable good-for-nothing tool.'"

You do _not_ have acne. "At least my name is recognized by spellcheck. Asides, I'm an orphan. My life has been sadly lacking in the motherly fingering department."

"My heart bleeds for you," Karkat sneers.

Roxy cuts in before Karkat can continue on another one of his... well, the best description you can think of is 'insult-sermons.'

"This has been fun and all, but I really gotta go. Dave, d'you have Pesterchum?" You nod. "Sweet!" she says. "Pester me?" She rummages in her purse and pulls out a scrap of paper and a pen, on which she writes her chumhandle. She hands it to you and flounces off with a "Later, boys!"

"Completely derailed my train of thought," Karkat grumbles.

"You were insulting me," you remind him.

"Well, if I go back to that, we'll be here all night before I run out of material. Which would probably be just fucking fine and dandy with you, considering I doubt you have much else to do, but I'd prefer not to spend my evening with a piece of trash like you."

"What's making you so anxious, Pops?" you ask. "You found some kinky pay-per-view porn you're just itching to get your grubby little wrinkled mitts on?"

"Watch who you're calling Pops," he says. "What are you, forty?"

"Whoa dude, you're fuckin' hurting my feelings. Thirty-two, and I look twenty-eight."

"Much too old for Roxy, then. You could practically be her father, Christ."

"And you could be mine. What's your point?"

He grunts. "Forget it, shithead." Prying off the top to the box he's carrying, he proceeds to rummage through it, producing a silver coin like the ones on Roxy's chain. "Here's your fucking twenty-four hour coin. Not like it's worth anything, especially to a dumb fuck like you. They don't give out the nice ones until you've got a year, anyway."

"Thanks, I guess," you say.

He closes the box. "I'd say 'see you around,' but we both know it's not likely I will."

"Fuck you too," you reply, and walk off, shoving your coin deep in your pants pocket.

You call Mr. Crocker to tell him that you went to a meeting, and this time he seems to believe you. You offer to show him your coin as proof, but he says that isn't necessary, and that he can drop Dirk off either tonight or tomorrow. It doesn't really matter to you, so you tell him to ask Dirk. Your son shows up at the front door about a half-hour later.

"I would have been here sooner, but I had to pack," he tells you.

"I guess I can forgive you this once," you say, and the corner of his mouth twitches up. You hold out your fist for a bunp, which he returns, and it's just like old times. Totally chill.

Later that night, after Dirk's gone to bed (or, more likely, turned out all the lights and resumed working on his pet robot project), you get on Pesterchum. You add Roxy to your chumroll, but she's not online. The only person who is (and doesn't have their mood set to "rancorous") is your friend Jade, who you haven't talked to in... well, probably almost a year now. Shit.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] is pestering gardenGnostic [GG] \--

TG: yo yo yo if it aint my main girl da jadenator

TG: screw all dem haterz

TG: she da decimator

TG: killin all dem boyz she says cya later

GG: hi dave!!! :D

GG: also decimate means to kill 1 in 10 fyi...

TG: dude i knew that okay it just sounded nice with the rap aint you ever heard of poetic license

GG: just making sure :)

GG: anyway whats up??

TG: nothing really how bout you

GG: not that much! im in siberia right now!!!

TG: wow no shit

TG: isnt that like

TG: cold

GG: yes it is! but every night i get to snuggle up with the huskies were working with so im toasty warm!!!

TG: wet smelly pooch mattress

TG: sounds great

GG: :P

GG: hows dirk doing??? is he still into science and robots??

TG: oh man yeah hes all over that shit 

TG: i think hes building some kinda death cyborg in his room but im not really sure because he wont let me in there he set up a multiple tier padlock and passcode system that i cant figure out no matter how hard i google

TG: did you know hes learning japanese too

TG: im raising a fuckin child prodigy harley i dont even know what to do with this kid 

TG: pretty soon he wont even think sbahj is funny anymore

GG: :o what a tragedy that would be!

TG: i know right

GG: we must prevent it from ever happening!!! the future of the human race depends upon dirk appreciating the weird movies you made when he was a toddler!!!!!!!!!

TG: dont get sassy with me

GG: sorry dave!

GG: i forgot how sensitive you are about your movies :P

TG: its spelled moivies christ woman its like i dont know you at all

GG: omg dave shut up! you are such a dork!!!

TG: lies

GG: truths! you are totally a dork!

TG: when did you turn into such a heartless liar jade

TG: tell me so i can know how long ive been deluded by the belief now revealed to me as a fantasy of my own construction 

TG: the belief being the one where you are a good kind friend and not a heartless lying fiend

TG: how long jade

TG: how long

GG: BB

TG: what the fuck is that is that somebodys chumhandle abbreviation or what

TG: bubblebuttBibliophile or whatever

GG: its you! see theres the shades and theres the dorky buck teeth!

TG: looks more like you wearing my shades

TG: ooh zing

GG: i cant believe i thought you were cool when we were younger! you are and always have been the dorkiest dork to ever dork!

TG: did you know that dork is actually a word for a whales penis

TG: are you surreptitiously complimenting the size of my manly bratwurst

GG: :o dave! omg!!!

GG: anyway you should tell dirk to pester me sometime! i know some guys in japan who are doing some really cool stuff with robotic prosthetics :D if he wants he could meet with them and make some connections!!! its never too early to start networking!

TG: ok will do

TG: hows jake by the way

TG: i forget what hes into is it like the smurfs or weaponry or something like that

GG: hes not doing great actually :( he says he doesnt like the boarding school hes at right now...

GG: he says its boring and he wants to be out adventuring with me! which is sweet but i want him to focus on his studies... adventuring isnt just about running around and having fun! you have to be knowledgeable about stuff too!

GG: i wonder if maybe its just hard for him to find friends?? he says all the european kids are really snooty :(

TG: he could come stay in cali theres some good boarding schools here

TG: dirk doesnt have a lot of friends either maybe they could be bros

TG: besides then youd know i was here to watch over him and shit

GG: hm... ill think about it! thanks for the offer dave!

TG: if he needs anywhere to stay for holidays or whatever heres good too

GG: aww thanks dave!! i take back everything i said about you being a dork :D

GG: anyway if thats it i should probably go! we all have to share a computer here and my teammates are giving me nasty looks because ive been on here for a couple hours now :(

TG: oh wait hey before you go

TG: what do you think about age differences

GG: what about them???

TG: like

TG: whats an okay age gap for dating what isnt that sort of thing

GG: why are you asking? ;)

TG: i found me a sugar momma 

TG: shes eighty and im just not sure of the ethical ramifications of our starcrossed love 

TG: i need your expert opinion oh wise jade harley

GG: well theres always the divide your age by two and add seven rule!

GG: which would mean your dating range would be... 23 to 50!

TG: is that all

TG: kinda limited dont you think

GG: omfg dave i cant even tell if youre joking!

TG: im completely serious how could you even think i would joke about something like this

GG: okaaaaaaaay whatever you say mr cool guy!

GG: i gotta go though!!!! bye!!! :D

TG: later

\-- gardenGnostic [GG ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

Well, shit. 


End file.
